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But you look all in. Get the Don to give you a cup of coffee. How would you like a steady job at the hospital? Not very much, from the looks of you." He laughed uproariously.
It seemed almost sacrilegious to Harry, such vulgar, commonplace talk in the face of the struggle they had just been through together. The doctor, who so short a time before had seemed almost superhuman in his power over life and death, was again merely Don Guillermo, a fat and lazy dispenser of pills. Harry turned away in disgust.
Among the women of the place Harry noticed one who looked remarkably like the doctor's Mexican wife. "Strange," he thought, "how much alike all these women are!"
It was late before the doctor was able to leave his patient. Harry then drove him back to Madre de Dios through the chilly night. Dawn was ghastly in the east as they drew up before the hospital, and the world looked pale and wan, like the face of a sick man.
The doctor had slept all the way. Now the cessation of motion roused him, and he lumbered heavily out of the buggy. He took his little black bag from under the seat and turned to go in.
But Harry stepped in front of him; he felt a need of saying something for which it was not easy to find words.
"Won't you shake?" he asked a little huskily. It was his tribute to the Godgiven power so grotesquely housed in Bill Jones.
Don Guillermo shook readily enough; he harbored no resentment for his kidnapping. He blinked with sleep, and his hand felt cold and clammy.
It was plain that the doctor, too, was struggling to find words for something that lay uncomfortably on his mind.
"Look here," he said at last, "don't let it get around about my not wanting to go over there to-day. That girl turned out to be my wife's sister. The fool boy they sent over after me never told me; but just the same I am afraid I should have a hard time explaining to the señora. Why, she would never let me hear the last of it!"
"Never fear. I won't tell on you," said Harry, bitterly. No, after all, the ghost of Eugenio's baby was not laid, never could be laid.
"My, but I am dry!" said the doctor, with a cavernous yawn. "And cold!" He shivered. "Come in and have a taste of something."
HILE Luther was in retirement at
rapidly in Wittenberg. Left to themselves, some of his associates and followers proceeded to put his principles into immediate practice and to break with traditional custom at many points. Hitherto, despite the radicalism of his utterances, the externals of the old system had remained untouched. But this state of things could not continue permanently. His doctrine of salvation by faith alone, making all efforts vain to win the divine favor by acts of special merit, his principle of Christian liberty, releasing believers from dependence on hierarchy and sacraments, and his denial that pope or council or any other ecclesiastical authorities had the right to lay upon Christians obliga
tions not required in the word of God— action.
The first break came in connection with the celibacy of the clergy, from time immemorial a rock of offense to would-be reformers. In the spring of 1521, certain priests among Luther's following ventured to marry, and in the summer Carlstadt published a book attacking not only clerical celibacy, but also monastic vows. Luther himself believed priests had the right to marry, if they chose, on the theory that celibacy was unjustly required of them by a tyrannical church; but he regarded monasticism in a different light. He remembered the solemnity of his own vow, taken freely and without compulsion, and though he had for some time looked with disfavor
upon the monastic life, he felt that a voluntary promise ought to be kept, be the consequences what they might.
But when led by the situation in Wittenberg to examine the matter more carefully, he soon came to the conclusion that monks were as free to marry as priests. The monastic vow, he decided, was itself wrong, and therefore not binding. It meant dependence upon works for salvation, neglect of the service of one's fellows, and permanent bondage to a law, thus violating Christian faith, love, and liberty. His condemnation of monasticism was undoubtedly far too sweeping, and his estimate of it unjust to many a devout and noble soul; but he was consistent in pronouncing the institution, with its irrevocable vows, fundamentally at variance with his gospel of Christian freedom, and its common emphasis out of line with his interpretation of the Christian life.
He defended his position in two series of theses, and a little later, when a number of monks left the Wittenberg convent and renounced monasticism, he wrote an elaborate work justifying their course and fortifying their consciences. The book was preceded by an interesting letter of dedication, addressed to his father, ex
plaining and apologizing for his entrance into the monastery. He had taken the vow against his father's will, and hence, as he now confessed, in violation of his duty to God.
"And so," he exclaimed, "will you even now drag me out of monasticism? But that you may not boast, the Lord has anticipated you and has dragged me out Himself. For what difference does it make whether I wear cowl and tonsure, or lay them off? Do tonsure and hood make the monk? 'All is yours,' says Paul; 'but ye are Christ's.' And shall I belong to the hood, and not rather the hood to me? My conscience has become free, and that is the most complete freedom. Therefore I am a monk, and yet not a monk; a new creature, not the pope's, but Christ's."
At the instance of Carlstadt and other radical spirits, there speedily followed many innovations in the religious services. While in themselves of no great importance, they outraged the feelings of the more sober and conservative spirits in Wittenberg and its neighborhood. Ominous they were, too, because largely identical with changes made in Bohemia under Hussite influence, thus seeming to presage the same revolution and bloodshed as had
WESTERN SIDE OF THE WARTBURG
The building at the left is the Ritterhaus, at the right end of which are the Luther rooms.